Reflections: The Night of the Dinner
by history lady 24
Summary: A series of stories looking back at some Tom and Sybil moments during season two, as seen through the eyes of the couple when they return to Downton for Mary and Matthew's wedding during Season Three, Episode One. Begins with Tom remembering his visit to Lady Sybil's room to leave 'the note' for her before serving dinner to the visiting general. *Updated - Chapter 5 Now Up!*
1. Chapter 1

_Like many of you, I've spent too much time in the last couple of months watching Season 2 again to cement all of the details in my mind before the launch of Season 3. As I was watching I wrote a series of five or six pieces that tell my version of some of the goings on between Sybil and Tom during Season 2, beginning with the almost failed dinner when Tom had his worst moment of the show. Instead of posting them as just a Season 2 piece, though, I've decided to frame them in the context of Season 3, Episode 1, as I have to imagine that those few brief days at Downton were full of very poignant memories for both Sybil and Tom._

_I hope that you enjoy – reviews welcome!_

_Disclaimer: I don't own Downton Abbey – that would be Julian Fellows. But I do thank him for creating such interesting and inspiring characters!_

**Downton Abbey, The Evening of Tom and Sybil's Return**

"Mmmm." Tom stared into the black darkness of the space above him as Sybil shifted in the bed and rolled closer to him. For a moment he thought she might wake up – she'd had a little bit of trouble sleeping in the last nights before they'd left Ireland – but within a moment Tom knew that she was still settled, and would be fine.

He, on the other hand, had never been more awake. Their arrival that afternoon had gone well – or as well as could be expected, he supposed – but dinner had been a bit awkward, to say the least. While he was initially pleased to see that there was a new footman – meaning that at least one person in the house didn't instantly recognize him as the former chauffer – he still suspected that the lad had been told all about him. _Not that he probably didn't figure it out the instant he entered the dining room._ Tom knew that their clothes and his forthrightness about the situation in Ireland would instantly make them stand out. _And suppose that Mr. Carson's probably him everything, anyway. Another person to horrify with the tale of the chauffer who didn't know his place._

_But I still wouldn't ever go back. And thank God, neither would she._ Tom smiled into the darkness at his bride. It might be difficult, awkward, perhaps even a little embarrassing at times, this first visit, but at least they were together. He'd walked into Downton Abbey today as Sybil's husband, her peer, and while Mr. Carson and Lord Grantham's expressions were not exactly welcoming, the walls had not fallen in.

_The walls._ Tom found himself straining to see the room around him in the darkness. This was a room that he'd never been in before – well, not that that meant much. He'd never been in any of the bedrooms, upstairs, expect for that one awful night before the dinner when the General visited, when he'd taken the note up to Lady Sybil's former room. _Not exactly my finest moment, _Tom thought, a wry expression on his face in the dark. It had all come rushing back to him earlier, when they'd been shown to their room – a couple's suite, which included two bedrooms and a bath (a not so subtle hint that some of those in the house would prefer them to sleep apart) – when they'd walked past the door to her former room.

**Downton Abbey, the Night of the General's Visit, Sometime Before Dinner**

_Lilacs._

His nose identified the scent instantly. It was the perfume she wore. He'd smelled it on her many times, when she'd stand next to him, her hand lingering in his as he prepared to help her into the motor.

_No. That's not why you're here._

The voice in his brain was insistent. He had not come here, of all places, to linger. Not now. Not when….

_Just leave the note and go._

Tom reached into his pocket, his eyes half closed, trying to keep his composure. That was all he was here to do. Leave the note, sneak back out the door, and go back down to the kitchen where dinner would be waiting.

The paper felt heavy in his hand, though, as he pulled it out. _Lady Sybil._ He placed it on the table at the foot her bed.

_I wonder if she'll hate me._

The thought came into his mind again. Would she understand? No, probably not. This was something that she didn't understand about him. She probably never could, never would. This was something personal to him – this was his home.

_Where I should be._

The voice was loud, but a part of Tom wanted so badly to shrug it off. To give up this foolish plan, to admit defeat and keep on going as they had been. She'd come around some day, right?

_No._

Tom felt like he had been fighting this inner war forever sometimes. Part of him wanted to stay here, to be with her, no matter what it took. Even if he was a chauffer forever – it was worth it to be with her, right?

The other part of him, though, was disgusted with his actions. He had given up so much to stay here. His political convictions, his home, his family. And then when that letter came, telling him of his cousin's death... That should have been him, at home, in Ireland, fighting for freedom. Fighting to throw off the cloak of oppression that was the wealthy British Empire. Fighting to get rid of all that Downton Abbey and Lord Grantham stood for.

But yet he was still here. He'd stayed, worked, bowed, served, and loved her from afar. And it hadn't worked. He was still here, a working class Irish servant, and she was still so far above him. Too far, perhaps.

Tom knew that he was doing this for all of the wrong reasons. To prove to himself that he could still fight back. To swing one punch, however feeble it was, at the great British system. To prove to her, that he would **not** wait forever, that he had his own life to live, and if she wasn't going to take a stand with him, then he'd go fight his own war on his own. He didn't need her, after all.

He hated himself for it, though. He hated the thoughts he was having, the nasty voices in his head. Standing there, in her room, he almost gave up the whole plan.

Looking around the room, he could feel her all around him. The room was sunny, even in the early evening light. All windows and breeziness and light – just like her.

Tom let his hand trail across the table, his finger prints slightly smudging the clean surface. He knew what he had to do, but he wanted one moment here, first, to say goodbye to her. Because he knew that once he served dinner tonight, and humiliated the general, Lord Grantham would never let him see the beautiful Lady Sybil again. This, and the letter he wrote, would be the only chance he would have to bid her farewell.

As he looked about the room Tom found himself, yet again, astounded by the elegance of Downton Abbey. The furnishings of just Sybil's room alone were probably worth more than his mother's entire flat.

A large wooden wardrobe stood on one wall, full, he was sure, of Sybil's elegant gowns. He thought for a moment of opening it to see if her blue harem pants were still inside. Or the frock she'd worn at the garden party. _The first time we held hands. _The gesture seemed too intimate, though, and Tom found himself pulling his hand back to his side.

_I can't even bring myself to touch her things…_ He cursed in his head. She was so far above him, so removed from his world. He'd once believed that he could break those barriers away and be with her. Lately, though, the barriers only seemed to grow taller, broader, harder to get around. Now he was not only the poor, odd, socialist chauffeur, he was now the living embodiment of the Irish enemy.

He turned then and saw her bed. His eyes widened as he shifted his focus to it for the first time. She slept. There. _In her nightgown. In her shift. Maybe even less._ The thought brought a red flush to his face and a sudden tightness to his uniform. "Mmm." The sound that came out of his mouth wasn't even a word.

He stared at it, his eyes a blue storm of lust and desire. What he wouldn't give, just once. Just once. He could picture her there, lying on the white sheets, her ivory body bright in the moonlight, her arms open to him, encouraging him to come to her.

He let his mind go, for a moment, imagining what it would be like to make love to her, there, in that big, soft bed. He imagined the ways he would try to please her, with his lips, his hands, his mouth. He imagined her clinging to him, crying out his name, their bodies one.

The thought literally left him weak-kneed. He tentatively moved closer and sat down on the edge of the bed, his hands tracing patterns on the bedcover. To be here, just once, with her. He leaned his head forward to her pillows and breathed deeply of her scent.

_But you can never have her._ The voice in his head mocked him.

Tom's head snapped back as the cold realities of life flooded his mind again. He could never have her. Would never have her. It was just too much.

And so he would leave Downton, tonight, his fate secured by English law and their hatred of the Irish.

_I wonder if she'll even care?_

The thought echoed loudly in his mind as he turned the knob and closed the bedroom door behind him.

**Downton, the Night of Tom and Sybil's Return**

_And now I'm lying here, next to her, in one of those big, soft Downton beds, miles from Ireland, miles from home. And she loves me, is carrying my child, even, and isn't afraid to let the world – or her family – see it for themselves._ A smile played on Tom's lips as he turned towards his bride and placed a tender kiss in her hair before closing his eyes and going to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks to those of you who enjoyed chapter one! Here's the next bit...a look at two conversations between Anna and Sybil surrounding the dinner. You'll have to forgive me for the bit at the end - I've always wondered if Edith would have just kept on driving that night had Anna not stopped his Lordship's car. _

**Downton Abbey, Season Three, the morning after Sybil and Tom's arrival for Matthew and Mary's Wedding**

Sybil turned her head to the door at the knock. A smile played on her face. _Yes, she knows to knock now. After all, she's a married woman as well…_

"Come in Anna, it's alright. Tom's already up and dressed and going for a walk on the grounds."

Anna opened the door with a smile on her face. "Sorry, milady, I just didn't want to come in should Mr. Branson still be…"

"I know. Thank you, Anna." The two shared a knowing smile.

"Can I help you dress this morning, milady? I didn't know if you'd want any help with anything." Anna gestured towards the wardrobe, uncertain if Sybil would want her assistance, now that she was used to dressing herself every morning in Ireland.

"I honestly don't need any help, Anna, but I would not mind having a chat for a few minutes. Tell me, please, how you are bearing up. I cannot tell you how sorry we are that Mr. Bates is still in prison."

"it's hard, milady. I'll not lie to you. You know, perhaps better than anyone else here, how hard it is to be separated from the person you love more than anything in the world."

"Yes. Though God knows we never had to go through anything like this". _Although I do worry that before everything is settled in Ireland, back home, that Tom might meet the same fate._ A shadow passed over her face.

"I want you to know that we think about you, and I pray for Mr. Bates, and for you, every day. I know that I'll never forget your kindness to me the night that I was afraid that I'd lost Tom, that he might be packed up and sent off to prison after that terrible dinner…"

"Yes." Anna watched as a tear slipped down Sybil's face. "Yes. Begging your pardon, milady, but I worried a great deal about you and Mr. Branson both that night. "

"Yes, " Sybil echoed. "I don't know that I've ever been quite so scared…"

**Downtown Abbey, a few hours after the Infamous Dinner of Season Two, when the General was Visiting**

"Oh, hello Anna."

Lady Sybil looked up as Anna closed the door behind her. She watched Anna for a moment in the mirror, trying to catch her eyes, trying to decide if she should trust her.

It wasn't that she couldn't trust her. After all, Sybil had known Anna for years. She considered her a friend, a dear, sweet friend. But still, Anna was a servant, employed by her father, and Sybil was one of the daughters of the house, a world away. If her complex relationship with Tom over the last few years had taught Sybil anything, it was how big the gap between those worlds was. Tom had opened her eyes to how the servants viewed them – her family – and it had changed how she treated them, and wanted to be treated by them.

Swallowing her fear, Sybil turned to face Anna. _Please, please Anna, don't tell anyone. If you see it in my eyes, please don't say anything. Especially not to Mary. If she knew how much…_ The thought flitted through her head at lightning speed.

Willing herself to keep a calm demeanor, she tried to sound casual.

"How is Branson? " After all, shouldn't one of the family ask after a servant who had fallen ill during dinner? She had the right to inquire politely, didn't she? Her heart was pounding, though, as she said it.

"I believe he is better, milady." Anna met her gaze calmly.

"Do you know why he was taken ill?" Sybil's voice trembled slightly as she said it.

Anna smiled softly. In an instant, Sybil knew that she understood. She must. There was no other reason for her to give Lady Sybil that look that said _I know, I understand. You have to know how he is or your heart will give out at any moment._

Gripping the back of her chair, Sybil gazed at Anna, seeking some sort of comfort from her.

"I think he just has a bit of the flu, perhaps, milady."

Sybil nodded. "Is there anything I can do? I wonder if I should go out…"

In spite of herself she could feel her face flush slightly. In her mind's eye she could see him out there, in his cottage, lying on his small bed, face flushed, tossing and turning with illness, feverish perhaps. She imagined herself sitting down beside him, putting cool compresses on his brow, spooning warm broth into his mouth, holding a sick pan for him, rubbing his hand with her own and talking to him in an attempt to help distract him from his illness.

"No! " Anna's response was swift and sudden. It was enough to snap Sybil out of her daydream quickly. "I don't think that would be the right thing to do milady. I mean, it's not that kind of illness."

Sybil raised an eyebrow. "Anna, what are you talking about? There's something you're not telling me about T…Branson."

Anna sighed and exhaled deeply.

"Come now Anna, please."

Anna pursed her lips and was silent for a moment. Turning to look at the table in Lady Sybil's room, she could still see the note there.

"As you wish, milady."

And so Anna told her. About the note. About Branson's sudden interest in serving at dinner. About her own wrong judgments regarding Branson's motivations towards the general, how everyone panicked, how the whole thing almost came to a head in the dining room, in front of the entire Crawley family and several major English military figures.

Sybil's face turned red with first shock and then anger as Anna spoke. Any attempt to maintain a mask of cool propriety in front of Anna was gone as her face registered first one expression and then the next. When the housemaid stopped talking she sat silent, not able to find any words to describe how she was feeling.

A large part of her was terribly disappointed in Tom. She knew he had a temper. And it had seemed, lately, that he had been especially cold and harsh. She wanted to blame it all on what was happening in Ireland, the Rising, his cousin's death. But she knew it wasn't just that.

_He'd be there right now if it wasn't for me,_ she thought. _He'd be there, fighting for Ireland during her troubles, using his passion, his talent for speaking to try and rally support for the cause of independence. But he's not. He's here in England, miles away, frustrated by the pain and suffering, but unable to do anything about it. _

She found herself clenching her hands now, in her lap, her fair skin a sharp contrast to the dark color of her dress.

_And it's my fault. Because if it wasn't for me he wouldn't be here._

She closed her eyes and pressed a hand against her forehead. Completely unbidden a warm tear fell from her closed eye, and then another.

_It's all my bloody fault. If I had only given him an answer at York, he'd be gone, back in his home. If I had said no, had told him to go, he would be there right now with his family, fighting for what he believes in. Or if I had only had the courage to say yes, we'd be there together, fighting side by side for his dreams._

The tears were falling steadily now. She began to make little whimpering sounds and her shoulders were starting to shake. Anna moved closer, and put her hand on Sybil's shoulder, rubbing her back lightly.

"It's all my bloody fault," she repeated, this time in a whisper. "If I'd only had the courage…."

"Ssshhh." Anna tried to calm her.

Sybil, though, did not seem to even notice her there. She felt like there was crumbling inside. She knew she should be angry, should be furious. And a part of her was. She knew that next time she saw Tom it would all come out, and she'd yell at him and they'd argue about it. And a part of her would feel justified in that anger. But another part of her knew that she one of the reasons she would be yelling was because she wasn't brave enough to do anything else. She wasn't brave enough to bring up what had happened at York. She wasn't brave enough to admit to him her feelings. She couldn't bring herself to tell him that she might love him back. That she, in the middle of the night when she couldn't sleep, would lay in her bad and dream daydreams about what their life together might have been like if she had only had the courage to say yes to his proposal at York. About what it would be like to be with him, to be his wife, to be far away from Downton, a part of his world now, instead of him being forced to remain a part of hers.

A few moments later she opened her eyes. Reaching into one of the drawers of her dressing table she brought out a fine white linen handkerchief and began trying to dry her face. Turning to face her mirror again, she sat silently as Anna began to gently pull the pins from her hair.

Lady Sybil said nothing as she sat there. Normally she and Anna would chat during this little nightly ritual, but not tonight. She just sat and stared at herself in the mirror, wishing she could completely understand the thoughts that were skipping through her mind.

Anna worked quickly, knowing that Sybil was likely to say little more. Her heart went out to her. While Anna had certainly suffered her own heartbreaks and disappointments she knew that the road Lady Sybil and Mr. Branson were on was not an easy one either, fraught with its own problems and challenges.

"Shall we take off your dress, milady?" Sybil stood mechanically as Anna moved to begin unhooking all of the tiny hooks on the back of her dress. In a few moments she was done, and moved to slide the dress over Sybil's head. Both were silent as Anna began to unlace Lady Sybil's corset.

"I can do the rest myself, Anna. Thank you. Please – I, I…" Sybil voice caught and she could feel the tears welling up again. She pressed a hand to her mouth and tried to calm herself with little success.

"Of course. I'll bid you good night, then." With a quick nod Anna turned towards the door. Before she left, though, she turned back and laid a hand once more on Sybil's shoulder.

"What happened wasn't your fault, milady. And thank God, nothing really happened anyway. We can all be thankful for that."

Sybil nodded, sinking to sit on the edge of her bed. A look of horror crossed her face as a new thought crossed her mind.

"Carson won't, Mrs. Hughes, they won't? They can't….will they?" She looked to Anna for any indication that she might know if this incident would cost Tom his employment.

"I can't say, milady. I don't know."

"Yes, of course." She knew she had been foolish to ask – Carson and Mrs. Hughes would never discuss their decisions with the rest of the staff until making them public.

"We'll know more in the morning."

Sybil nodded again at Anna's comment. The housemaid turned and this time slipped out the door, closing it behind her quietly.

_We'll know in the morning._ Sybil moaned softly. What if she woke up to find Tom gone tomorrow morning? What if Mr. Carson fired him and he left before she was even awake? How would she react at breakfast when her father calmly announced that Branson had tried to do something ridiculous, dishonorable, that would embarrass their great house, and therefore had been let go?

A part of her longed to stand up, put on her traveling clothes, and go out to his cottage and tell him boldly that he was leaving that night, then she would too. To tell him that she knew she had been foolish, denying her feelings for him, and she was ready now to change that – to declare to the world that she did care for him, that she was willing to make the necessary sacrifice that he had asked of her all those months ago.

Instead, though, she sat on the bed, her face red and stripped by her tears, unable to move. She knew she didn't have the courage to do it. She knew that while the thought of running off with Tom invaded her dreams, it wasn't something that she had the courage to turn into a reality. At least not yet.

Breathing deep, Sybil tried to calm herself. She stood and began to pace slowly. She found herself replaying her conversation with Anna over again, trying to see if there was anything more she could glean of it, any hint that she thought that Tom might be spared, might not be fired.

As her mind slipped through their words again she found herself stopping at a different point this time. Her feet froze as Anna's words came back to her. "I found the note on your table when I came in before dinner to…"

_On my table._

Sybil looked up and found herself in the exact spot that Tom must have been standing when he put the note there. Looking in the mirror on the wall behind it she saw what he must have seen – the corner of her dressing table, the chair near the window, and her bed.

_My bed. _ Her face flushed again, except that this time it wasn't the tears. _He saw my bed._

She took half a step back. Reaching a hand up, she ran her fingers along the top of the table, tracing a path where his fingers were earlier that night.

When she lifted her fingers from the table she moved the hand to her lips, holding it there as if wishing she could somehow feel him, taste him, there. So overwhelmed was she that she took another step back, and in a moment was sitting on her bed again, not sure if her legs would hold her.

_What if he?_

This time she moved her hand to the bedspread that lay on her bed. She traced wide circles on it, thinking of Tom _in her room, _seeing _where she slept,_ sitting down perhaps _on her bed_ filled her mind.

_What did he think when he came in? Did he – how did he know this room as mine? He didn't have to ask Anna where it was…_

The thoughts go through her mind were racing faster and faster. She stood up and moved to stand in front of the large window that looked down on the garden.

_Does he ever walk by at night and see me? When in the summer I get up and open the drapes to get a breeze. Has he seen me in my shift?_

The thoughts were starting to make her body very warm.

Almost mechanically she reached out to pull back one of the drapes and open the window slightly. A cool breeze rushed in, causing her to shudder suddenly and wrap her arms around her body. As if in a daze, she looked down at her bed.

_Did he touch my bed? Did he sit down perhaps, for a moment, when he was here? Did he lay down on it, bury his head in my pillow, try to smell my scent? Try to impress on his memory something of me before he is forced to leave?_

She sat down for a moment, willing the bed to give her some sort of warmth. Something – anything – a smell, a smudge of dirt that he left behind when he sat on it. She stared at the cover intently, trying to imagine what he would look like sitting there.

After a moment she stood again. Moving to the window again, she looked down into the utter blackness. Raising her chin slightly and taking a deep breath, she reached to pull her shift over her head, and then slowly lowered her knickers in full view of the window, knowing that if he was there, he would see everything she just did.

As she listened in the silent darkness, though, she heard no sound, no gasp, no words, nothing. She knew at that moment that there was no one there. Pulling the drape back across the open window she shivered again. She turned and prepared to crawl into her warm bed. As she went to pull back the covers, though, her hand paused on the bedspread again and a thought suddenly struck her. Tugging it from the bed she wrapped her bare body in the duvet, the top side of it against her skin, and lay down on top of her bed, willing the blanket to share something of Tom with her. She fell asleep that way much later, her last thought a prayer that tomorrow morning, when she rose and breakfasted, there would be no announcement from her father, and Tom would be still in the garage.

**Downton Abbey, Season Three, in Sybil and Tom's Room**

"Milady?"

Anna's voice broke the spell in Sybil's mind. _How long have I been sitting here, staring at the myself in the mirror, remembering? _

"I'm so sorry, Anna. Don't mind me. I was just thinking about that night again. I don't believe I ever thanked you, properly, for what you did for me that evening. You were the first person to know, really, I think. And you never gave us away…for which I am so grateful." The affection in Sybil's eyes was genuine as she caught Anna's eye.

She paused for a moment.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course, milady."

"After we talked, that night, was anything ever said by Carson or Mrs. Hughes to the rest of the staff, concerning Tom?"

_Ah. _Anna nodded slightly. "Yes. In fact later that night, when I went back downstairs, I did hear a bit of their conversation. And it's always bothered me, milady, that I didn't come back up and tell you about it. I suppose I should have. I was sorry for it, but never quite knew how to…what to…"

Sybil's smile faded slightly. "That's alright, Anna. I understand. I'm just grateful that you didn't betray us, when you knew."

_No, I didn't do that until later._ Anna's eyes closed as she remembered back to that awful night in the car, when they'd gone off to search for Tom and Sybil and she had been the one who spotted the Renault at the Swan Inn. _I don't suppose I'll ever be able to confess that to her, though._

"There." Sybil put the brush she'd been holding down and turned away from the dressing table mirror. "Am I fit for breakfast?"

"Of course, milady." Forcing a smile, Anna grabbed the doorknob and left the room, trying to shake the ghosts of the past.


	3. Chapter 3

_Again, thanks to those of you who have read and commented! There will be probably three more parts to this that I hope to get up in the next few days, because Episode Two comes! I hope everyone is enjoying this blending of 'past' and 'present'._

**Downton Abbey, Season Three, After the Dinner With Larry**

"Has Sir Anthony left?" Sybil asked as she descended from the last step of the grand stairs.

"Yes, I just saw him off." Edith was still smiling.

"I'm sorry I missed him. I wanted to come down and thank him, for exposing Larry that way, I mean. I so appreciated what he said, about Tom and all, and I wanted him to know that I - that we - were ever so grateful to him."

"I thanked him before he left, though I'm sure he'd be happy to hear it from you and Tom as well, when you next see him."

"And will that be soon?" Sybil's eyebrow arched slightly.

"I hope so. He'll be coming to the wedding."

"I'm so glad."

"Me too." Edith paused. "How is Tom?"

"He's sleeping now. He'll be alright, though I suspect that he will have a pretty terrible time of it in the morning."

"Ah, yes." Looking around to make sure that they were alone, Edith reached out suddenly and laid her hand on Sybil's arm. "Are you- do you-, I mean...Would you have a few moments to talk? I wanted to ask your advice about Sir. Anthony, I mean, about relationships. I feel as though I don't quite know what I'm doing, and God knows I can't talk to Mary about these sorts of things, and I was wondering if you might be able to offer me some advice, maybe?"

"You want advice from the sister who tried to elope with the chauffer?" Sybil teased.

"Would you? It's just that you and Tom seem so happy." Edith asked quietly, her expression suddenly serious.

Sensing her sudden shift in mood, Sybil placed her hand reassuringly over Edith's. "Of course. Do you want to go into the library, or back up to your room?"

"Let's go upstairs. I suppose Anna will be done with Mary soon, and I don't want to keep her up too late."

"Of course."

The two sisters ascended the stairs together. "Would you mind if I went and changed quickly, while Anna helps you?"

Edith turned a confused head towards Sybil. "Don't you want to wait until she's done with me?"

"No, there's no need. I'll change myself - I do every day back home - and then I'll be to your room in just a few minutes."

Another fifteen minutes found the two sisters in Edith's room.

"Will there be anything else, milady?" Anna asked as the Sybil settled herself on Edith's bed, leaning back against the pillows with a sigh.

"No, thank you Anna." Edith dismissed her. "Shall I join you, on the bed?"

Sybil giggled. "Well, it is your bed, you know."

"Yes, I suppose it is."

"Come here." Sybil gestured to the spot right next to her. "I've just started to be able to feel the baby move, a little bit. I doubt you'll be able to feel anything yet - Tom hasn't, though he's certainly tried. But if you want to, you may touch my stomach. If you want to you may."

"Really?" Edith reached out a hand and placed it ever so lightly on Sybil's slightly rounded belly.

"Will you come back here when you have it? Her, or him, I mean?"

"We've not decided." Sybil tried to keep her tone light.

"If you have the baby in Ireland, may I come visit, after he's born? I don't know how much help I'll be to you, but I would very much like to see my new little nephew or niece."

"Of course. That would be lovely. And I'm sure I'll put you to work right away. There will be plenty to do, I'm sure."

Moving back slightly from her sister, Edith turned to face her. "Is it hard, running a house?"

Sybil laughed again. "Well, we hardly have the sort of home that you will, someday, if you marry Sir. Anthony. There's just the flat, so we do everything ourselves, but for the laundry, which we do send out. If you're thinking of running an English estate, though, I'm hardly the one to ask."

"I do wonder, sometimes, what he would let me be involved in, if we married."

Sybil cocked her head to the side. "Do you think that you will?"

Edith blushed prettily and looked down at the bed. "I hope so."

"Has he said anything to you?"

"Not directly, though we have been spending a fair bit of time together. I sometimes wonder, though, what he thinks of me. I'm the more forward one, I fear, which I know isn't proper. It's just that I want him to know that I do care for him, and would be very happy with him, despite the differences in our ages and his injury and everything. He would make me very happy, I think."

"Then you should let him know that. Sometimes it takes awhile, for the other person to come round. Tom waited years for me." Sybil's tone was very matter of fact.

"If you don't mind me asking, when did he first propose to you?" Edith watched her sister carefully, not completely sure how she might react. Truthfully, no one in the Crawley family had ever quite managed to piece together the story of Sybil and Tom's romance long romance.

"Would you be shocked if I told you that he proposed when I left for York, for nurses training, in 1916?"

Sybil watched with amusement as the expression on Edith's face became one of shock.

"Really?"

Sybil nodded, her hand coming to rub her belly. "He loved me for so long, and was so patient with me. It took me years to realize that I felt the same about him. He saw it before I did. In fact one day he confronted me about it, out by the garage. I was stunned at the time, but hearing him say it suddenly made me seriously question myself for the first time. In the days that followed, I realized it was true. Then came deciding what I was going to do about it. Would I just walk away, and marry someone that Mama and Papa picked out for me? Or could I do it? Runaway with him, marry him, go to Ireland?" Sybil caught her sister's eye. "And you know what I chose."

"And you don't regret a moment of it."

"No. Don't be afraid to encourage him, and let him know that you care. Sometimes those of us who are rather slow need a bit of proding along the way. We normally come round, though, in the end."

"I do hope so." Edith's voice was a little wistful.

"Have faith." Sybil reached out to rub Edith's arm.

"I'll try." At that moment Edith yawned.

"You'll need your rest tonight, then. And I should be going back to my husband, and make sure that he's sleeping still."

Edith's eyes followed Sybil as she got up off the bed and walked to the door. "Thank you, again."

"Of course."

Sybil closed the door behind her quietly and began to make her way back towards their room, where Tom was sleeping. Settling herself onto the bed next to him, she trailed her hands lightly across his face, brushing his hair back across her forehead. Watching him sleep so peacefully, her mind drifted back to that day again. _I'll stay at Downton until you want to run away with me..._

**Downton Abbey, Season Two, On the Grounds, When Sybil Went For a Walk Outside After the Aforementioned Conversation**

_I'll stay at Downton until you want to run away with me._

His words were all she'd be able to think about since the moment he uttered them. She wondered fleetingly if she'd always remember them, would tell her – no, their – grandchildren about them someday. There would be grandchildren, she was sure, if he had his way.

_Probably has the whole bloody thing planned out, from the wedding night on,_ she thought, her face flushing a bright red. The thought caused her to stop in her tracks for a moment, her mind suddenly trying to picture such a moment herself. It sucked the very breath out of her – even the thought of his hands – God, those hands, on her. Her. All of her. All. Of. Her. She closed her eyes and darted under a tree a moment, wishing to disappear completely from sight.

She backed herself against the trunk and closed her eyes. She saw him again, as she had last night, in another one of her dreams. Those dreams. He was naked – well, nearly – and standing in front of her, his hand reached out for her. She remembered looking down and being shocked to discover that she was also without clothing, her light white skin glowing in the light cast by some unseen light. She remembered watching silently as Tom walked closer to her, put his hands on her, first at her waist, and on her breasts, her navel, her buttocks. She remembered moaning loudly, a completely incomprehensible sound, as he pulled her closer to him. Closer. Always, always closer. And then they had kissed, and she'd felt his skin on hers, and suddenly she felt her entire body shudder, her shaking only stilled by his strong and protective arms around her, and the taste of his mouth.

She'd woken up shaking still, her feet tangled in her sheets, her nightdress nearly at her waist. She was hot and shaking and terrified for a moment, completely overwhelmed. She wanted to cry, to run out, just as she was, to Tom's cottage and pound on his door, and then let him take her in his arms and kiss her, touch her, just as he had in her dream, until she was calm.

_Calm._ In spite of herself, she smiled. _I doubt that would do much to make me calm. _Calm was exactly what she could not seem be, anymore, anytime that Tom was nearby, or even just in her thoughts. Just the memory of it was enough to cause her knees to give out from under her, her body sliding down the tree trunk until she sat, huddled, at the bottom of it. She wrapped her arms around her knees, drawing them close, and gazed off into the distance, her eyes seeing him again.

She was going to break at some point. She knew she would. He could play this game, so calmly, so coolly, whereas she could not. He could say whatever he wanted to, because he had nothing to lose. She, on the other hand, felt a nervous wreck. There were days, times when she felt like she could never get away from him. He could be in the garage or miles away on a trip with someone, and yet he always still seemed to be there, taunting her, reaching for her, kissing her.

_Damn him! _she thought. _Damn, damn damn him. Damn you, Tom, you who look at me so calmly, so self-assured, as you said those words:_ _I'll stay at Downton until you want to run away with me._ God. She'd tried to act sane, unruffled, but she knew that her armor was beginning to break. She wondered if Mary'd seen in on her face, the gut wrenching agony when he'd said those words. _The truth is, you're in love with me._

Oh God, how right he was. He must be. Why else would she be feeling this way? Why else would she feel this way every time she saw him? Why would he affect her so, like nothing she'd ever experienced before? He made her feel like she was drunk, her head spinning, her mind unable to focus on anything but him..

Mary would know. If she didn't yet, she would soon. _After the way I snapped at her, what I said._

Sybil certainly hadn't meant to respond to Mary that way when she came into her room before dinner last night. She knew she was in for a scolding, though, the second the doorknob turned. She'd have to be more careful – people were noticing. Why, though, did it have to be Mary? _Probably because Edith never notices anything_, Sybil through dryly. Mary, though, was a different breed entirely. She was smart enough, experienced enough, to see what her little sister was doing. And it terrified Sybil.

_What am I to do, see if Sir Richard Carisle has a younger brother?_ She'd regretted the words the moment she'd said them. It was too much. Mary was marrying Sir Richard. And she was just supposed to be the daughter of Branson's employer. Nothing more. They really shouldn't even be friends, under proper circumstances.

Even mentioning him in the same conversation was enough to alert Mary. And while Sybil cursed herself for doing it, betraying herself, betraying Tom too, a tiny bit of her was pleased. Pleased that she had dared to stick up for him, defend him, to Mary, the older sister that she had idolized when they were children.

_It's the first time I've claimed him before any of my family¸_she thought. Well, not that she really and truly claimed him, completely. And there had been that time, after the count, when she'd yelled back at her father, defended him before her family. But that was different – that was before.

Now, though, as she sat, she wondered if she could do it again. She'd have to, if she ever had the courage to do what Tom was asking. Run away. The very words even scared her. A fleeting smile crossed her face, though, as she remembered using those words before, threatening to run away from her family if they dismissed Tom after the count.

_I suppose that's rather a theme with us._ The thought was almost enough to cause her to giggle. A grin did hover over her lips.

It melted, though, as she looked back at the house. It was so big, so beautiful. So permanent, just as her family had always been. _And he wants me to give it all up._ A part of her resented him for it, she knew. She was also smart enough, though, to know that there was no other way. Her parents would never accept the idea, would never welcome Tom into the house. Her father would be appalled at the very thought, her mother shocked and scandalized. Running away with him would mean the end of everything she had ever known, her security and the love of her family. Perhaps for forever.

Sitting there, squinting her eyes against the rare English sunshine, she tried to see it as Tom did. As he must. That very quickly changed everything. The house, so beautiful, suddenly became too big, a symbol of false grandiosity and wasted money. _ I wonder how many starving Irishmen could have been saved with the money it took to build it, _she thought. The grounds – _how many people could farm it, and make a living? _The cars, _rich men's toys_, the servants, _taught to bow and scrape and coddle their betters,_ the way they lived. And the army too. God, that probably made it even worse. Not that Tom didn't approve of Downton being used as a convalescent home – she knew that he did. But what it must be like for him there, to be surrounded by so many British soldiers, some of whom could have possibly been in Ireland last year.

_I wonder if he ever thinks about one of them being the man who killed his cousin. _The thought came to her completely unbidden. It shocked and sorrowed her. To be surrounded every day by the people who were your enemy, who shot your family, who destroyed your home.

It was enough to drive anyone to their breaking point. Especially someone like Tom, who was so proud, so smart. _And yet he's still here. _The words floated around in her mind like a windstorm, circling back again and again.

_I was wrong, though. He has already given up things._ _ Now, I suppose, he's just asking me to do the same. _The thought was enough to make her sit up much straighter. He had sacrificed, and would continue to, until she gave him an answer. That's what he was saying. He was pledging himself to her, to stay, to endure whatever it took, until she was ready.

The true enormity of his words began to really sink in as she sat there. Yes, he was asking a lot. And she truthfully didn't know if she ever could do it, she could run and leave it all behind. Yet that's what he had done – he'd left behind the thought of going back to him home, maybe ever, all for her. Because he loved her so desperately that now she was all that mattered to him.

**Downton Abbey, Season Three, Tom & Sybil's Room**

_And now he is all that matters to me, _she thought, as she shifted slightly. Tom's body, though asleep, turned towards hers and in a moment she was wrapped in his arms, his chest pressed tightly to her back, his hands, even in sleep, resting protectively around her growing belly._ Tom and our child. _She smiled in the dark.


	4. Chapter 4

**Downton Abbey, Season Three, The Night Before the Wedding**

Mary sat down on her bed and sighed heavily. She had never quite imagined the night before her wedding being like this. It had been a long day, and she was exhausted, but she knew that for the moment, sleep was not going to come.

Standing again, Mary pulled back the covers and settled in beneath them. The bed was cold. Mary shivered slightly, willing her body heat to warm the sheets.

_I wonder what tomorrow night will bring._

Her cheeks flushed slightly – not out of embarrassment over what was to come – she'd crossed that bridge long ago. She wondered, though, how Matthew would act, what he would expect of her. _I wonder if he'll be thinking about Pamuk being here, with me, in my bed._

Mary shook her head, as though trying to clear the image from it.

_No. I will not let anything else disrupt everything tomorrow. We will marry, and Matthew and I will be lovers, and everything will be settled. Because Tom's right. Neither of us will ever be happy with anyone else as long as the other walks the earth._

_Tom._

Mary reached a hand up to her eyes and covered them.

_Tom. Who would have thought that we'd be taking marriage advice from my sister's husband, the former chauffer, the night before our wedding? That he'd be the one to make us see reason?_

Mary pursed her lips at the thought. _How times do change. Perhaps it really is a good thing that I never told Papa about him and Sybil, all those years ago…._

**Downton Abbey, Season Two, After Mary Confronts Sybil on the Stairs About Tom**

_Only Sybil._

Mary wasn't really quite sure how many times she had thought those words the last few years. She was pretty sure, though, that the number was going to increase before it eased up a bit. It seem to matter little lately, but whatever Sybil wanted to do, whatever she became embroiled in, it was always something that no one else in the family would have ever dared even think of, let alone actually do.

_And he always seems to be right there with her._

Mary grimaced at the thought as she sat at the dressing table in front of her mirror. That damn, bloody, sodding chauffer. It had all started when he came – _what year was it again?_ She wasn't sure, but then again, she wasn't really sure that she cared. What mattered was that all of Sybil's rebellion seemed linked to him and his radical ideas.

_And to think that I once defended him._

The thought loomed large in Mary's mind as she suddenly remembered the night of the count at Ripon, an evening that she would have rather have forgotten. She remembered him coming for her, telling her that Sybil had been hurt, and the frenzied mess that followed. She remembered standing in Sybil's room, watching her father yell at her, threaten to fire him, and she remembered speaking up, supporting Sybil's angry insistence that it wasn't Branson's fault.

_If I had only kept my mouth shut._

Defending people was not something that Lady Mary did very often, and she knew it. Her parents did too, and she found herself wondering how much credence her father might have given her words that night. Was there a chance that had she not spoken up, Branson would have been fired and gone the next morning, for Sybil to never see again?

_If only…_

But what was done was done. _God – that's a lesson I've learned again and again,_ she thought, wincing visibly. Indeed – what was done was done. With Sybil. With Branson. With Matthew. Oh God – with Matthew.

Mary shook her head at her reflection. No. Now was not the time to think about him. About it.

The problem, though, was that Mary couldn't ever seem to shake him completely from her thoughts. He was always there, lurking at the edge of every conversation she seemed to have, in her quiet moments before bed when he filled her thoughts, across the dinner table.

But he was with Lavinia. Lavinia. Now there was another person she hated.

_Why can't she be the one to run off with the chauffer? _ _If he's so damned egalitarian he shouldn't care that she isn't as rich as Sybil. That would solve everything. _The thought was almost enough to bring a smile to her lips.

The problem, though, was that she wasn't completely sure that Branson, if he really and truly did say those things to Sybil, was after her money. He was smart enough, she was sure, to realize that if they did run away and leave Downton together, that there would be no dowry, no settlement. _And yet the little bugger loves her anyway._

The thought was enough to make Mary freeze perfectly still.

Was Branson more honorable than she was?

She sat there, looking at herself in the mirror, her eyes locked on her reflection. _How could you do it?_ She'd asked herself the same question a million times in the last few years, wondering again and again how she could have been so stupid, so selfish, so weak, to turn Matthew down at the garden party. Though she could never bring herself to admit it out loud to anyone – not even Anna – she knew that it was without a doubt the stupidest thing she had ever done, and that she would regret it every day for the rest of her life.

He wanted her sister in spite of her money. He probably would do it – run away and work and slave for her, do everything he could to try and take care of her. And Sybil, dear, stupid, innocent Sybil would probably let him. She'd give up everything she had, her entire life, for a ridiculous, arrogant chauffer who didn't know his place.

_Whereas I couldn't even imagine becoming the wife of a successful middle class solicitor, on the off chance that there might be another male heir who would stand to inherit the estate._

Breaking her gaze, Mary bent her head down and rested it on one of her hands.

Sybil's feigned indifference earlier that day hadn't persuaded Mary that she hadn't thought about Branson's proposal. If nothing else, the way she had snapped the other night before dinner when Mary had proof enough. She had thought about him that way, it was obvious.

Looking back on their earlier conversation that day, Mary found herself reanalyzing what Sybil had said. _"We've not kissed, we haven't even shaken hands, I don't think._" It seemed like an odd thing to say – the bit about shaking hands. Mary remembered lifting an eyebrow at it at the time she said it, but now she stopped and really thought about it again for a moment.

_They haven't shaken hands. Does that mean that they've held them? That she's let him touch her? How much? Where? What have they done?_

It wasn't exactly the thought of Sybil touching Branson that frightened Mary. After all, she'd had plenty of friends who, as they were growing up, had developed a crush on one member of the staff or another. Some of them, she knew, went even far enough to kiss them, to lead them on. But never did she, or any of the other girls, ever dream for a moment that it would be more than that. That's not what rational people did.

The trouble, though, was that Sybil wasn't rational. Mary knew that first hand. She'd always been the bleeding heart as a child, wanting to help anything or anyone if she could. No one ever thought much of it, just assuming that that was Sybil, and so what?

_I wonder if Aunt Rosamond knows anything?_ Mary found herself suddenly flashing back to one of the many fateful conversations she'd had with Rosamond during her time during the season before the war in which she commented that Sybil could possibly be happy in a cottage, though Mary could not.

_I wonder if the term cottage can be stretched to mean servants quarters?_ The thought brought a sour taste to her mouth. Her baby sister, living in a servant's hovel, with him.

_This really is too much._

Could it have possibly started back that long ago, before the war? She didn't remember Sybil saying anything, giving any indication, other than her impassioned defense of Branson the night of the count.

_The count._ Mary groaned out loud as she now remembered the rest of that evening. Branson, helping carry her sister in. Branson, taking his time leaving the room so Cousin Isobel could treat her, even though he was no longer required. Branson, coming to her, hat in hand, to ask how Sybil was, if she would be ok, could she please tell him how she got on.

At the time Mary had assumed that he was concerned for Sybil simply because he was concerned for his job. After all, he wasn't stupid, and knew that whether or not attending the count was his idea or hers, he would be sent away, with no reference, no job, and the reputation as someone who could not be trusted with an Earl's daughter.

_And how true that was._

She shook her head.

_If Papa only knew._

Raising her eyes and returning her gaze to the mirror, Mary contemplated the thought of actually doing it. It would all be quite simple. Go tell Papa what had been going on, explain what Branson had done, and he'd be gone in an instant. She knew that her father would take her word as true, that he wouldn't think twice about throwing Branson off their property, putting him on the next boat to Ireland.

Sure, there would be anger and fury from Sybil, but she'd get over it, right? _Right?_ Mary sighed. That's where it all broke down. Because truthfully, she wasn't sure what Sybil might do. What if, in a fit of principle, she did run away this time? Would she run away with him, get on the boat to Ireland with him, leave them all?

_What a scandal. Earl's daughter rides off with chauffer. That would certainly be a headline for Richard's papers._

Mary winced as she thought it, both because she knew that Richard was capable of doing it, and because she knew that Sybil was too. Something in her sister had changed, and she couldn't quite put her finger on it. A few years ago, when she'd threatened to run away the night of the count, no one had taken her completely seriously. She was, after all, still a young girl, not even out in society yet.

Now, though, it was different. Sybil had made quite a practice of rebelling against her family in the years since, everything from wanting to train as a nurse to small things, like refusing to change her shifts at the hospital to come home for dinner. Somewhere in her was a rod of steel that seemed to grow a little harder each day, and it frightened Mary to think of what exactly her little sister might be capable of.

And she knew for certain that Branson would only encourage her, goad her, egg her on until she was ready to go. _If I don't do something… But if I do tell, the outcome may be the same. _

Mary closed her eyes, her mind spinning. There truly seemed to be no answer.

_I wonder what she sees in him?_

The question popped into her mind before she could stop it. Sure, he was fair to look at, but that could be said of many men with much more money. He was political, which would appeal to her liberal feminist sister. He seemed rather intelligent, for a servant.

Surely none of those things were enough?

While a part of Mary was willing to chalk her sister's irrational behaviour up to her seemingly constant need to rebel, she was also smart enough to know that Sybil wasn't that stupid. Despite what Mary had accused her of earlier, she knew how the world worked. She understood, deep down, that the idea was much more radical than anything she had ever contemplated before. It was, in truth, so radical that might tear their very family apart. Both sisters knew it.

_Then what? What would make her ever think about leaving us for him?_

Suddenly, out of nowhere, Mary knew. It was the count again that told her. That image of Branson, so scared, so bereft, so terrified _for her sister _– not for his job – that told her. He'd been scared that night, nearly to the point of tears for Sybil. Scared because he cared for her that much.

The thought poured over Mary like a bucket of cold water. She had no doubt, though. He – the sodding bloody chauffer – loved her little sister. Had loved her for years. And Sybil knew.

And in that instant Mary knew that she would not say anything. Because as stupid and irrational she believed Sybil to be, she was still her baby sister. And she would not deny her the one thing in the world that Mary feared she herself might never have again – the genuine love of a man.

**Downton Abbey, Season Three, The Night Before the Wedding**

_And now we both have men to love us….the same two men… _Mary's thoughts were cloudy as she lay there, sleep having almost carried her away. _The same two handsome, irrational, bloody, loving men._

She feel asleep with a smile on her face.


	5. Chapter 5

_I meant to post this a few days ago, but really struggled with what to write for the season three surrounding bits. I wrote the middle portion of this chapter several weeks ago, and I think it remains my favorite of this set. I never seem to tire of imaging Sybil and Tom in the library. While I imagine it was the scene for a fair bit of flirting for them, I also like to imagine it as a cozy setting for some more serious conversations between the two, during the late night hours when the rest of the house was still. Here is one of those late night conversations, framed by a bit of more playful fun._

_By the way, there will be one more of this little set of fics coming, I think, in which I explain just exactly when, in my mind, Sybil decided to say yes to Tom. I wonder what you will say about the moment that I chose?_

_And not to prolong this, but if you'd like to read about another Tom and Sybil meeting in the library, check out my story A Moment in the Library._

_There – done now, I promise!_

**Downton Abbey, Season Three Episode One, Just Before Tea with the Crawley Family**

They'd gone done early, knowing that the rest of the family wouldn't be assembling for tea for another half hour or so. Sybil held his hand as they walked down the grand stairs together, their arms swinging back and forth in tandem, in what she was sure Granny would have described as a very 'middle class' fashion.

When they came to the bottom of the stairs they turned towards the library and entered the dark room, the wood paneling inside glowing beautifully in the late afternoon sun.

They weren't more than two steps into the room when Tom turned abruptly and kissed Sybil, his hands wrapping around her possessively, drawing her close enough that their bodies met completely.

Sybil sank into the kiss, her lips greedy for his taste. There had not been enough of these moments since they'd arrived at Downton. At home they were always touching, holding hands, embracing, making love anywhere and everywhere in their small flat. Even after nearly a year of marriage it still seemed as though they had not quite made up for all of the years they spent apart, not touching, only looking, longing, and waiting.

"I've always wanted to do that to you, in here, you know." Tom smiled rakishly as he pulled his head back from Sybil's. She grinned in response, and leaned forward to kiss him again. His hands began to slide down her back, cupping her bottom firmly. Sybil moaned and ground her hips against his, what little self restraint she ever managed to possess around Tom quickly crumbling.

As much as Tom wanted to kiss his wife, there, in that room, there were other things on his mind as well. "And that's not all I've ever wanted to do in here with you, come to think of it." He said the words softly, his mouth close to her ear, his breath tickling her.

Sybil laughed softly and reached out a playful hand to swat at Tom. "And with my whole family coming down to tea in a few moments? Maybe a bit later, tonight, when everyone's gone up. If you're good, I suppose something might be arranged…."

Kissing him once again soundly, Sybil pulled back and spun away from him, as though dancing. She giggled, suddenly feeling like a sixteen-year-old girl. Grasping Tom's hand, she pulled him behind her, across the room and towards the mammoth book shelves that lined the end of the library. "How many times do you think we met here, over the years?" She arched her eyebrow and stared at Tom, a smile on her face, the memories flooding back.

"I cannot even begin to imagine. If your father only knew what he was doing, the day he told me I could take out any books that I wanted, as long as I wrote them down in the ledger." Tom shook his head at the memory, a moment nearly eight years in the past.

"Probably best that we not remind him of that, my love." Sybil turned to smile at Tom, who was now standing behind her as she examined the ledger again. She turned the pages of it slowly, back to 1913, and began tracing her fingers over their names as they started to appear on the pages in pairs, _Tom Branson, Lady Sybil Crawley,_ over and over again. Tom's name, and then a few days later, her own, the same book title registered by both.

Watching her hand, Tom wrapped his hands around her slowly growing waist. At one time his fingers would have met, but that was changing, now that their child was starting to grow in her. He rested his chin on her shoulder and breathed in her scent lazily as she continued to turn the pages slowly, stopping every now and then to comment to a title and reminisce about the conversations they had in the car or garage after reading it.

In a few moments her hands turned the page to 1918. About a quarter of the way down the page her finger stopped suddenly as she found a solitary title that bore only her name, with no match for Tom's. _A History of Ireland._ A smile played on her face as she turned her head slightly to catch Tom's eye. "Do you remember?" she asked quietly.

"Of course." He paused. "That was the first time that I really believed that you were going to marry me. I knew that you loved me before that, but that was the first time that you actually gave me hope that you could really honestly do it – leave England and go home with me, to Ireland."

**Downton Abbey, Season Two, A Few Days After Sybil Tells Tom that Mary Knows About "Us"**

He didn't notice her at first when he stepped into the library. It was dark and late, and thanks to Anna, he knew that the family had gone upstairs. He'd come in to return a book and pick out his next.

She was sitting on one of the large red couches near the fireplace, her shoes off and her feet drawn up on the couch, tucked under the skirt of her nurse's uniform. There all alone she looked almost like the little girl she used to be, who loved no place more than her father's library.

She looked up when she heard his footsteps, her head peering up and over the back of the red couch.

"Hello," she said in a low voice.

His head snapped around to find her. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were here."

She watched him silently, not sure if she wanted him to go or stay. They had not spoken to one another since their last disagreement in the garage, when she'd confessed to Tom that Mary now knew and he retorted by antagonizing her about her work. They had both avoided each other since, both a little hurt, and a little unsure of what came next.

Moving back to close the door behind him, Tom walked over towards the direction of her voice. He saw her there, on the sofa, and his heart lurched at the sight of her. She looked so - Sybil. No formality, her proper posture gone, her nurses uniform wrinkled from her day. She looks like an ordinary working woman, home from her job in the evening, stealing a few moments rest before going to retire.

"May I?" He gestured to the other end of the couch.

Sybil nodded. "Yes."

He sat down tentatively. Generally their scenes were played out in the garage, in his world. This was different, in hers.

She shifted and sat up slightly to face him.

"No, please don't."

She gave him a slightly odd look and settled herself down again.

"You just looked so comfortable. I didn't mean to disturb you."

A slight smile played on her lips as she tucked her feet once more back up under her.

"Did you come in for a book?" She knew the answer already, but wanted to talk about something.

"I did." He paused slightly. "And what are you reading?" He gestured towards the volume in her hands.

"A history of Ireland."

His heart skipped a beat. _Did she mean she was thinking about his offer again? Was it a sign?_ He knew that she read many of the books that he did. Anyone who ever looked at the ledger could see it - not that anyone else really did. This was something different, though. He'd never checked out a book on Irish history...he hadn't had to. He'd already read all of the few volumes that Lord Grantham had in his library on Ireland long before ever setting foot in Downton. Might this be reason to hope?

He tried to keep his voice steady as he asked, "Which one?"

Marking her page, she wordlessly handed the book to him.

He studied it for a moment. "Can I ask why you're reading this?"

She arched an eyebrow and said nothing for a moment. _Because I want to know more about where you're from? Because I want to know about this land, to know if I could ever imagine living there and making it mine? I want to read between the lines and try to imagine myself there with you, and see if it could possibly ever fit? If I could ever really do this, run away with you, for real?_

He looked at her again. This time the tension in his expression was replaced with something deeper – a mixture of hope and affection.

"I suppose I want to learn more about Ireland. About her past, and the rather…difficult relationship she's had with Britain. The reason for what's happening now, the Rising and all." She hoped it sounded casual.

"I don't know if you'll find all of that in one book." The corners of Tom's mouth turned up slightly as he said it.

"You say it's a beautiful, wonderful country, and I believe you. But when you talk of it, I hardly know what to think sometimes." She was watching him carefully as she spoke. The words coming from her mouth were true, but there was so much more in her heart.

"It is beautiful. Very beautiful." His blue eyes watched her carefully, and she found herself wondering if he was truly thinking of Ireland. She blushed.

"And I suppose I think that if I can understand Ireland a little bit better, then maybe I can understand your…perspective…on things a little more. What life might be like for someone who were to go to Ireland, I mean, if you were to go to back to Ireland now…" _and if I went with you._ The words were in her mind, but not quite on her tongue. She couldn't give him that much hope yet – though a part of her ached to.

She held his gaze solid, willing him to understand that she was trying. God knows, she was trying. She wanted to understand him, to understand what would push him to the breaking point that he had been at in the past few weeks. To understand what made him hate so. What made him feel so desperate that he would do anything, any insignificant ridiculous thing, just to feel like he was doing something for his home.

"You won't find that in there. That one was published several decades ago." He was challenging her, and she decided to accept it.

"Then tell me. You read Irish papers still, don't you? Tell me what it's like. Tell me about your home, about Dublin. And the Rising – what really happened."

He clasped his hands together and rested his elbows on his knees. He looked like he was steeling himself for a long endeavor.

"Tell me, Tom. Help me to understand….your home_." _She paused. "And you." She sat up as she said this. There was an earnestness in her voice that struck him. Yet he remained silent still, staring at the floor, afraid that once he opened his mouth, and the words started, that they would never stop.

She leaned forward and touched his hands slightly with hers, letting it rest just lightly on top. "Please. So I'll know what it's like if I…if I ever go there someday." It was as close as she could come.

He exhaled deeply. _ Had she really taken his words seriously, this time? Was she honestly suggesting that she might, someday, be willing to actually go with him, run away and leave this all behind? _The thought was enough to make his head spin. He knew that he loved her, and believed that she loved him, too, even if she wasn't ready to acknowledge it yet. A part of him, though, wondered if this might be the start of something. He prayed to God that it was.

His hands opened slightly and grasped hers between his own. He felt as though he'd been handed a lifeline. He gripped it tightly, looking up at her with an expression in his eyes so intense, so full of love, that it terrified her. She felt herself tremble slightly.

He hesitated for a moment more, and then began to speak.

The clock ticked on as they sat there, one hour becoming another. The world outside was dark, the worlds upstairs and downstairs were silent. But in the library, there were words and three hands, still holding onto one another. Tom talked and talked in the glow of the dying fire. The words spilled from his lips freely. He spoke of the beautiful hills, the countryside, the ruins of old churches and monasteries. He told her about the neighborhood where he grew up, the violence that had come to it in the last few months. About his family, their names and stories. Finally he told her about the Rising, about how his mother wrote to tell him about his cousin's death, and how his family, and thousands like theirs, had been affected by all of the turmoil.

As he spoke his shoulders seemed to lift slightly, as though invisible burdens were being lifted from them, now that there was someone to tell all these things. Sybil sat largely silent, asking a question here and there, trying to take it all in.

"You love it so much. You must miss it dreadfully." The conversation was beginning to wind down, both realizing how late it was and thinking of the early morning that would come tomorrow.

"Yes. But I won't go back yet. Not yet. As much as I miss it, I know that I would miss you more." Sybil looked up and found herself staring into deep pools of blue. His eyes held her own, never breaking the open exchange of their gaze. He rubbed his thumb across her knuckles. Raising her hand slightly, he lowered his head and placed his lips on it, tenderly, gently.

The kiss was brief but full of emotion. When he released her hand he stood and turned to go, afraid that if he dawdled he might reach for her lips next. He couldn't do that – not tonight. Not yet. He knew she wasn't quite ready.

Sybil watched him silently, so full of conflicting feelings that she was afraid to speak. There were tears in her eyes threatening to fall, words on her lips that she was not brave enough to say. But something must be said – something to let him know how very grateful she was. And that she cared, too.

As he reached the door and began to turn the knob she willed her mouth open. "Tom-" she paused. Gathering her resolve to part with him on good terms this time, she continued with the only words she was brave enough to say. "Thank you. For – for – for – for telling me. About your - home." The words were soft and simple, but he seemed to understand their meaning. He smiled faintly and walked through the doorway with more confidence in his broad shoulders then she had seen in weeks.

**Downton Abbey, Season Three, A Few Moments Later**

"I dreamt about it that night, you know, after I went upstairs to bed." Sybil turned to face Tom, her eyes staring deep into his. "I dreamt that we were in Dublin, and that we were married. It was the first time that it was all became real to me, what you were asking."

"And is it what you imagined, now?" Tom asked.

A slightly puzzled look came across Sybil's face. "Yes, and no. I don't think I really understood yet what it would be like, living with you every day, being your wife. And I can't pretend even now that I really understand Ireland, and everything that's happening. But I think I finally really understood, that night, how much you loved Ireland. And I realized that if I were to really love you as you deserved, that we would need to go away to Ireland and make our own life there."

She paused, a smile playing on her face.

"Sometimes I think that home for me isn't Ireland or England, either one. I think that my true home, my love, is simply with you."


	6. Chapter 6

_Hi all! I wanted to say thank you first of all to all of you who have read, favorited, and commented on this little series of fics about the wonderful Bransons. I've had a great deal of fun writing it, and hope you've enjoyed reading it! As you might guess, I am a complete romantic when it comes to making memories, and I'd really enjoyed trying to imagine what Tom, Sybil, and Mary remembered when they were all reunited at Downton for the first time. _

_This is going to be my last piece of this particular fic set, but I sincerely doubt it will be my last overall. I've tried to keep it canon as much as possible, though I do mention two things in here that we never saw in Season 2 – a horse back riding episode, which I have up as a fic under the title "In For A Penny", and a moment in the rain, which I've not finished and posted yet. It will be coming sometime in the next couple of weeks._

_I just want to comment that I know that it's not terribly likely that Tom would have waited this long to figure out that he wanted to be a journalist – I suspect that Yankee Countess' take on the whole idea is much more accurate! – but someone this is just how the story played out in my mind. That being said – enough blathering from me! XOXO_

**Downton Abbey, Season Three, the Day Tom and Sybil Depart for Ireland after the Matthew & Mary's Wedding**

It was still cold when the sun came up that morning. Tom had awoken early, his mind too full of anticipation and fear over what might meet them back in Ireland for him to sleep. This was the day they were leaving Downton and going back home.

_Home._ The word seemed to reverberate in his mind as he stood there on the estate lawn. He'd been surprised at how homelike Downton had felt to him since they had arrived. Tom had made a point of visiting many of his and Sybil's spots, as he called them, during their visit. It gave him an excuse to leave the house and to relive some of the days of their courtship, when they were falling in love. And, if he was honest with himself, it had also given him an excuse to leave the house, where he felt as though everyone was always watching him, waiting for him to make a mistake. He'd visited his old cottage, where he'd lain awake so many nights, dreaming of Sybil. He'd walked the trails in the woods where they had talked, argued, and dreamed. He found himself visiting the tiny shed where they'd sought out shelter from the rain together, so many years ago, and even the bridle path where Sybil had once given him riding lessons.

In all of his wanderings about the estate, though, there was one spot that he had not yet made it back to. He'd been saving it, intentionally, for their last day. A apart of him had wanted to wake Sybil so she could come with him, but she'd been so tired last night, after the excitement of the wedding, and he wanted her to get all of the rest that she could before they returned back to their busy existence in Dublin. Thus Tom found himself alone outside that morning, watching the fair light of the sun play across the leaves of the big old tree, where he and Sybil first held hands at the garden party, so many years ago.

**Downton Abbey, Season Two, November 11, 1918**

Tom first saw Sybil under the tree later that afternoon, many hours after everyone had stood together in the hall to mark the end of the war. They'd separate afterwards with no opportunity to talk, her off to her nursing duties, and Tom off to the garage, where he's spent the afternoon washing the Renault and thinking, always, about what might come next and when she might give him her answer, now that the war was officially over.

It had been all he could do to keep his eyes off her that morning. She'd stood there so tall, so proud, in her nurse's uniform. She was so very different from her family. He had such a hard time keeping his mask on, still, after so many years, when the others were there. It was so hard to see her and not reach out for her, talk to her, exchanges smiles and stories with her, when they were present.

As she stood there in the hall, so serious, so quiet, Tom couldn't help but feel that what made Sybil so different from her family shone through, even during a serious occasion. Truthfully, he no longer even saw her as a member of the Crawley family. She still bore the name _though hopefully not forever, _he prayed. But she wasn't really one of them anymore. She was no longer the Earl's daughter, a beautiful object to be prized and admired from afar, who would spend her life in the arms of rich men attending glamorous balls. No. Somewhere along the way she simply became Sybil, the woman he loved. The woman that he wanted desperately to marry and make his own.

Looking back, Tom was sure the change had begun when she decided to train as a nurse. No one in her immediate family had ever done anything like that before, and it set her apart from them. It made her different, separate, unique.

And it was certainly her nursing that helped her to see beyond the bounds of Downton. He could still close his eyes and remember the look on her face that day at York when he drove her to the school where she would train. It was the first time that she was on her own, left to her own devices and talents, to either sink or swim. He knew it must have excited and terrified her simultaneously. He had hardly recognized it at the time, though, his own mind so full of the words he had struggled to say.

In the days and months that followed, when the pain of York filled his body and mind, he had tried to hate her. But even then, he knew he never could. And then when she came home, and he first saw her in her uniform, he started to hope again, feeling somehow as if that simple garment was some sort of great equalizer. When she was in uniform she was no longer Lady Sybil – she was Nurse Crawley, a working woman that wanted more from life than beautiful gowns and teas. He would never forget the first time he saw her in it, standing so proudly outside of the school at York.

God, how he wished he could have stood next to her earlier, hold her hand, and declare his love to everyone. He so badly wanted to claim her as his own. To tell her parents that loved her, that he would be the very best husband she could ever have. That he would love her and care for her as no other man ever could. He knew that it would only be a matter of time, now that the war was over and the men would all be returning, before they would start trying to find a suitable match for her again. It had been bad enough, before the war, when they went to London for her first season. He'd spent the entire time wondering who she was dancing with, who was admiring her, touching her, publically courting her, as he never could. He knew that if he had to stand by and watch it all happen again that his heart would break into a million tiny pieces, never to be repaired.

As the thoughts in Tom's head continued to swirl about, he began walking towards Sybil. She was standing exactly where she had the day of the garden party, the day they learned that England had entered the war against Germany, when they had swept Gwen up in their arms and then held hands. It had been a day that none of them would ever forget.

Sybil turned her head slightly as Tom approached her, giving him a melancholy smile. The wind blew around her, catching the skirts of her uniform and the scarf on her head. Tom watched her silently, spellbound, as he always was, by her beauty.

As his steps slowed and he came to stand beside her, neither of them spoke. Both seemed to reach automatically for one another, and in a moment they were holding hands, just as they had that day four years before.

There was a difference, though. This time there was no one there to see them and force them apart. And this time the feeling was different. Gone was the rush of giddiness at the first time, the first touch. Instead, they both stood quietly, calmly, each trapped in their own thoughts, yet gripping the other tightly, as though holding onto a life line.

Even their hands had changed. Tom's had filled out, and were perhaps a bit more muscular. Sybil's were completely different. Gone were her lace gloves, her perfect white skin, the carefully manicured nails. Her hands were still beautiful, but now they had slight calluses. One nail was shorter than the rest, it having been broken when she caught it earlier during her nursing shift. They still showed just the last of the summer color that she had acquired walking patients about the grounds for their exercise. They were no longer the hands of an idle lady. Now they were the hands of a nurse

Finally Sybil broke the silence. "It all felt so final inside, earlier. It wasn't that many years ago, though, that we were standing here, and there was music playing, and the war was just beginning."

"I know." He smiled slightly and rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand. "You were so lovely that day, in your summer frock with the lavender flowers."

She looked up at him and smiled at his remembrance. The picture of that day was still very clear in both of their minds. "Yes. I still have the frock, tucked away in a box now. I've not ever worn it since. It seemed…wrong… somehow." She paused. "And now it's almost winter, four years later, and things have changed so. Just as you said they would." She looked down now, at the tips of her black boots. She still had a hard time finding his eyes when she alluded to his proposal at York.

"The world is different. Things have – are – changing." It was as far as Tom could go. He truly believed, honestly, that she was on the edge, on the precipice, but as much as he wanted to, he couldn't push her over. Not here. Not in this sacred spot. He wanted this memory, at least, to take back home with him if she refused his offer and he returned to Ireland alone.

"Now that the war's over, I wonder how long it will take for the vote. If we were smart to wait. And Ireland – what do you think will happen in Ireland, Tom?"

"The war in Ireland isn't over…it's only just starting, I fear. I wonder, sometimes, if I will recognize it when I see it again, someday."

"You will go back, then, and fight?" Sybil turned to look at him curiously.

He sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "You know the answer to that. I'll stay here until you give me your answer."

"And if I say yes? Will we go to Dublin then?" The question was an honest one. Sybil turned her head and looked at him earnestly, wondering what he would say. She knew that Tom wanted to go back home, but she had no idea what he would do when he –_ they, _she thought – arrived. He'd never spoken of a plan that went any further than marrying one another.

Tom's eyes widened slightly. _Was she? Had she just? Did she say? _Then he heard the words again in his head and caught the 'if'. _Damn._

He tried to keep the tone of his voice even. "Yes. I sometimes wonder what it's like now, how it's changed. I don't know if I'll even recognize it. So much of Dublin was destroyed during the Rising."

"What would you do there? What sort of work would you find?" She was working very hard to keep the conversation theoretical, to keep her voice calm, but inside her heart was racing.

"I won't go into service, unless there's no other work. I want to do something that means something, something to help win our freedom…" He was so surprised at her question that he found himself struggling to find an answer. What exactly would he do, if she agreed to leave with him? Tom had spent so much time dreaming about the day, the possibility of going home, of taking her home with him, that he had to admit that he hadn't planned much farther out.

"Would you fight? Join the uprising? Surely there will be a revolution." She watched him carefully, anxious of his answer, wondering if perhaps they had made it through one war just to be destroyed by another.

"There are other ways to fight than with a gun. I'll not join the army, if that's what you're asking. I'd rather be involved with the politics - writing, thinking, making decisions."

"Do you know anyone in the government you could work for?"

He shook his head, a dejected look on his face.

"What about writing, then? Could you ever go for a journalist?"

"And put all of my hours reading newspapers to good use, then?" He smiled slightly and squeezed her hand. "I'll admit that I wouldn't mind seeing my name in print. Just imagine what they'd say here if they opened a newspaper someday and saw my name in the byline. Carson would have a heart attack!" _ To say nothing of your father._ This image brought some life back to his face.

Wanting to encourage him, Sybil nodded and smiled at him. "You're good with words Tom, you always have been. I think you'd do fine work as a journalist."

"And the pay would be enough, I would think, that I could support you and maybe have a little to save. We'd not be rich, but we wouldn't starve either. God knows, Sybil, I'd do anything to make sure you are properly taken care of." Tom watched her face carefully, trying to gauge her reaction.

Sybil nodded her head, her face revealing little of her emotions and the thoughts whirling around in her head. A part of her wanted to turn, to fling her arms around his neck, to kiss him – _God how she wanted to kiss him! _ – and tell him yes, she'd go, she follow him anywhere he asked. But she still couldn't. Not yet. The war was over, but there would still be patients to care for, and that aside, she still had no idea how to break the news to her family. She still needed a little more time.

A thought crossed her mind. "And would I be able to find work, as a nurse?"

His voice caught a little as he began to speak. _She really and truly is thinking about going with me, isn't she? _"I'm sure. Unfortunately, if things continue to get worse, there will be plenty of nursing jobs available."

"And would you mind, if I were to work, I mean? After…." She couldn't bring herself to finish her sentence. The words, though, pounded loudly in her brain. _After we marry. After we marry. _

"That's your choice. I would not tell you what you can and cannot do. I won't be your master." _But I do want to be your husband. For the love of God, Sybil…._

"Granny would say that's what men are for, to be our masters and do our working and our thinking for us." She tried to sound as though she was challenging him, but there was a teasing edge to her voice.

He heard it and laughed. "Sybil, love, I don't exactly think your grandmother and I are ever going to agree on these sorts of things…."

Her breath caught in her throat. He'd never called her that before. She felt her face flush. Gathering all of her courage she turned to face him directly, his hand still tight in hers. "You just called me 'love.'" She whispered the words.

He flushed slightly, unaware of the slip until she spoke. He stood quietly for a moment, searching her face, not sure what to say.

Finally he found his voice. "I suppose I did."

"Do you call me that, often, when you think of me?" Sybil's voice trembled slightly.

Tom nodded, his blue eyes trying to read hers for a sign.

"Do you? I mean…" Her voice trailed off. She couldn't quite believe that she was finally saying this, asking him to declare his feelings out loud in such a way. She knew he loved her…he'd as much said so many times. But he'd never actually said those specific words. She wanted so badly to hear them, now.

"Very much. I love you, Sybil Crawley, more than I will ever be able to tell you."

In that instant she knew it was true. And she also knew that she would go to Ireland with him, run away with him, follow him anywhere in the world. Because he loved her, and though she couldn't say it just yet, she loved him too.

He was right. The rest really was just details.

**Downton Abbey, Season Three, the Day Tom and Sybil Depart for Ireland after the Matthew & Mary's Wedding**

"I thought I might find you here."

Tom turned and smiled broadly at his wife's voice. There she was, his beautiful Sybil, coming out to join him once more, in that sacred spot. She stopped and stood beside, him, taking his hand and kissing it.

"We'll have to bring the baby here, someday, when he or she is old enough, and tell them that this is where their parents' romance began."

Tom grinned. "Began? I thought that was in your father's car, months before the garden party."

"Perhaps for you," Sybil teased. "It took me a little longer. But I knew that day, at the party, that you were someone very special. I just wasn't sure what to do about it at the time."

"Well, it only took you a mere five years after to figure it out. I suppose I can't fault you for that," Tom teased back.

Sybil smiled, but then grew more serious. "You know, Tom, it was here, under the tree, that day the war ended, that I made my decision. I wasn't brave enough to tell you for a few months still, because I didn't know how to tell my family. But that day, when you told me you loved me for the first time – that's when I knew I'd marry you."

The two stood silently for a moment, wrapped in their memories. Stepping behind Sybil, Tom placed a kiss in her hair, and wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her hands as they both cradled her growing belly together.

"And I'm so happy that I did."

**THE END**


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